Twists of Fate
by flaminglygayangels
Summary: In a moment, everything can change. For the better or the worse, that is up for one Matthew Williams to decide when he is paralyzed from the waist down in a car accident one night. (AU Prucan)
1. One Lovely Night

It was a lovely summer night, Matthew decided as he walked. The sky was clear, the moon was full, crickets were chirping. Bats flew overhead, catching moths and gnats. Somewhere to his left, an owl hooted. It really was a nice night for a walk.

Too bad he had to spend it looking for his damn dog.

"Kumajiro!" He called, sweeping the flashlight around. Seriously, how hard was it to find a white dog in the middle of the night?

Technically it was around one-thirty, but who cared.

"Kumajiro! I've got a big juicy steak for you at home!"

Somehow, his Newfoundland/wolf mutt had escaped. And by somehow, he meant his idiot of an older brother hadn't shut the gate properly, and the stupid hound had gotten free.

"WOOF!"

Matthew paused. There was no mistaking the sound of Kumajiro's bark. Which had come from behind him, in the direction of his house. Which was actually Alfred's house that Matthew had moved into temporarily. It was hard, finding a place with a yard big enough for Kumajiro with a somewhat affordable price-tag. And they called America the Land of Opportunity. Yeah, the only opportunity Matthew saw was for his mom to say she was right all along. Like hell he was going to let that happen.

He arrived at the house to find nothing. Huh.

"Kumajiro!" He called again, looking around.

"WOOF!"

That explained it. Damn mutt was probably at the front door, where the neighbor girls would occasionally leave treats for him.

So the reader can imagine Matthew's surprise when no large white pile of fur and slobber awaited him at the front door.

"Kuma?"

"Arf!"

Matthew turned around, and smacked his forehead. Kumajjiro was on the other side of the street. Of course.

"Come on Kuma!" He clapped his hands a few times, but the canine only tilted his head to the side and panted, tail wagging a mile a minute.

Stupid dog. Stupid dog-trainer. Stupid America. Stupid Alfred. Stupid person who came up with the idea of packaging hot dog buns into bags of eight and hot dogs into bags of ten.

"You're all too stupid to live." He grumbled as he crossed the street, not bothering to look both ways because it was a quiet neighborhood. No one was ever out past nine.

In the next few seconds, each of his senses registered something different.

He heard the squeal of breaks.

He felt the cold asphalt of the road, and an intense, burning pain.

He tasted blood in his mouth.

He smelled the reek of alcohol as someone bent over him.

He saw the moon grow dim, and the stars vanish into nothing.

Matthew Williams-Jones didn't open his eyes until two days had passed.

And in those fifty hours that he slept,

Everything had changed.


	2. Bullshit

(A/N: My hand slipped during note taking and next thing I know, this happened I apologize.) (Also, i fergot the disclaimer in the last chapter. SO I DON'T OWN HETALIA. HIMA PAPA ALPACA NINJA DOES.)

His friends told him he was lucky. He walked away from the accident with a broken arm and a mild concussion, with a variety of scrapes and bruises. But honestly? He didn't care about that. He was worried sick about the stranger that he had run into. He had been in a coma for two days, and the doctors were grimly positive he would never walk again. _Congrats, asshat, you just ruined some innocent kid's life because you decided you could drive whilst plastered out of your thick skull._

His friends told him he was lucky. His lawyer had gotten him only five years in prison, instead of ten. Like it mattered. In five years, his victim (and he shuddered every time he thought of the kid that way) would still be confined to a wheelchair while he walked free. He thought he should have gotten a life sentence or something. Would've been fair.

Damn it, his brother had warned about driving drunk! Why hadn't he listened?! He had stared at the crumpled body in the street, mind sluggishly putting things together. When it finally struck him, he had tried to drag the kid out of the middle of the road, wondering why his left arm refused to cooperate. The kid wasn't waking up, wasn't responding to anything _oh god what if he was dead please don't be dead._

Lucky, huh?

"Bullshit." Gilbert Beilschmidt muttered into his hands as he hid himself from the stares of the world.

(A/N: I know nothing about court and granted I should have looked the sentence for drunk driving and injuring someone for life up, but just take this and leave. Good reader, great follower, fantabulous individual who will not leave hate.)


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